


Kara Sevde

by VicTheSpookyGoat



Series: Alexithymia [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Romance, Canon Disabled Character, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Raubahn goes full Gomez Addams, Sexual Tension, WoL has no idea what she’s doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26114986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VicTheSpookyGoat/pseuds/VicTheSpookyGoat
Summary: Kara Sevde: (Turkish) Literally, "black love""...for a heartbeat he saw only blackness. For a heartbeat he wondered if this was death. And for a heartbeat he thought this was a fine way to die."Direct sequel toShelter. Contains spoilers for A Realm Reborn Patch 2.55 and Heavensward.
Relationships: Raubahn Aldynn/Warrior of Light
Series: Alexithymia [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737175
Comments: 17
Kudos: 26





	1. Remorse

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to my enablers [tehJai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehJai) and [Draya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draya), and an extra massive THANK YOU to [chaemera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaemera), who delights in ripping out my heart and wringing it through his headcanons until words fall out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple slight revisions to this chapter to patch a plot hole, don't mind me.

“Is aught amiss, father?”

Vice Marshall Tarupin’s concerned voice cut through the Flame General’s musings like a blade through exposed flesh. Raubahn was suddenly aware that he had been holding his coffee mug halfway to his lips for must have seemed an eternity, and he blinked, shifting his gaze to meet his son’s eyes as he set the mug back on the table between them. 

“Pay me no mind lad, I was somewhere else,” he heard himself respond, not a lie, but not convincing either.

Pipin regarded him for a moment with one of his uniquely scrutinizing looks before nodding and casually reaching for another piece of toast, letting an uneasy silence fall over the breakfast table. Raubahn sipped at his coffee with a tinge of guilt, feeling his son studying him out of the corner of his eye, just like his father had taught him. These quiet moments with his son were rare enough as it was, and of late what precious time they had together had been tainted by his own malaise.

“I have heard grave tidings from Ishgard,” Pipin offered, breaking the tension with a sledgehammer of a topic. 

“What have you heard?”

“That an attempt has been made upon the life of the Lord Commander.”

“Aye,” Raubahn nodded, his expression darkening as his gaze settled heavily on the sunlight dancing over the dark surface of his coffee. The report had stirred dark memories upon which he was in no mood to dwell. “The Lord Commander lives to fight another day, though, and he will need to fight, if he’s to see Ishgard through what’s to come.”

Pipin hummed thoughtfully, still observing his father intently, before venturing a pointed response. “It is fortunate, then, that he should have our mutual friend on his side.”

Raubahn frowned, bringing his mug to his lips too late to hide the sudden tension in his jaw.

“That it is,” he finally replied, flatly.

His son simply continued to regard him with that probing gaze, nibbling at a rasher of bacon as the wheels turned behind his keen grey eyes.

“I have heard word from her as well.”

The Vice Marshall was pulling no punches this morning, it would seem.

“If there is something you would say, speak plainly, lad.”

“My business happened to take me to the goldsmiths guild yesterday…” Pipin replied, with a slight frown as he reached into the breast pocket of his doublet. “Serendipity asked me to bring this to you.” 

In his outstretched palm was a small wooden box, inlaid with delicate desert lilies of gold and mother of pearl. 

Raubahn had forgotten.

Or rather, he had chosen to forget. He stared at the dainty thing, wondering how he ever could have believed its contents would have been appropriate.

“Have you changed your mind, then?”

Raubahn’s frown deepened. “It was never made up to begin with. That—“ he pointed at the box with his mug— “was your idea.”

“An idea which, if I recall correctly, you were firmly in favor of at the time.”

He was not wrong; Raubahn had favored the idea, at the time. So much, in fact, that he had devoted tremendous care to the overseeing of its design, selecting the pearls himself, and trusting none but the guild master herself with its crafting… 

But now the thought of it pulled tension into his shoulders, setting his jaw and hardening his eyes, still fixed on the little box.

“Then I have changed my mind,” he declared, brusquely, after a moment.

“I see…” Pipin replied, quietly, clearly deciding how far to press his father on the matter, and clearly falling on the side of tact as he gingerly set the box on the edge of the table. “I am sorry to hear it.”

The Flame General said nothing, but finally tore his gaze from the now-cursed object as he sighed, settling back heavily in his chair. 

He was sorry too.

*****

That night, alone in his chambers after a long day in a seemingly endless string of long days, Raubahn’s eyes fell once more on the little box. Strange, he thought, that such a small thing could rouse in him so much grief…

For a moment, he entertained an impulse to destroy the wretched thing; to dash the box and its accursed contents against the hard stone, to crush them beneath his heel and be done with the whole matter… 

But he could not bring himself to do it, and instead put the box out of sight, if not out of mind, pushed to the back of one of his desk drawers, to be dealt with another day.

Closing the drawer harder than was necessary, Raubahn sank into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose in consternation. This feeling, this impotent frustration at no one but himself, was not one with which the Flame General could claim great familiarity. He was a man of action, a man who did what was necessary, always, regardless of the consequences to himself so long as it might serve a greater good...

But this…

The air in his quarters was stifling, the room too small to hold the restlessness stirring in his breast. He needed to move, to act, to do  _ something. _ With a scowl, he rose, and drawing his cloak close about him, set out into the night.

The streets were dark, and quiet, his own leaden footsteps echoing off the hard stones his only companion. The heat of the day had already dissipated, but Raubahn welcomed the chill against his skin as he walked aimlessly, his feet carrying him up one path and down another as he tried in vain to still the cacophony of his thoughts.

With each step, dread images passed unrelenting before his mind’s eye. Pale eyes wide with terror. Dark skin streaked with tears. The heaving of slender shoulders, and a voice strangled with wretched, bitter sobs… And through it all, a sharp thread of guilt looping tighter and tighter around his neck, choking and heavy…

By the time he had made almost a full circuit of the city, he could barely breathe, and the moon was high overhead, the midnight bell tolling somewhere in the distance. He paused at the edge of Pearl Lane, his heavy heart only grown heavier, his remorse almost deafening. Above him, the sky darkened as rain clouds drifted over the moon, and he frowned, wondering if he ought to take it as an omen and allowing it to foul his mood still further as he finally turned his steps back toward the Flame Barracks.

His path took him past the Quicksand, the tavern sounding to be in rare form - snatches of bawdy tavern songs and lewd propositions drifted from its doors to his ears, a siren song to drown his care in strong spirits - but he was in no mood to humor its debaucherous clamor tonight and plowed on, his eyes fixed on the warm glow of the Hall of Flames in the distance. As he drew upon the Aetheryte Plaza, though, the flash of an arrival caught in the corner of his eye, pulling his gaze from his course. 

The outline of an Elezen woman, slender and tall even for her kind, floated in the soft blue glow of the Aetheryte. In an instant, the outline sharpened; long limbs in close-fitted black leather, jet black hair cut to the chin, an unmistakable sway in her step as she stepped out from the Life Stream. He would know the silhouette from a thousand malms, and it stopped him dead in his tracks.

It was the Warrior of Light, and she was not supposed to be here.

Moni had not seen him yet, but as she climbed the steps to the street, her gaze drifted up to his, her pale eyes hollow and exhausted in the torchlight. She looked half-dead on her feet, her limbs heavy, only half focusing on him as she spoke in a voice gravely with too much use. “Flame General?”

“You look as if you’ve been to the seven hells and back, Mistress Penni.” He didn’t bother to smooth the concern from his voice; his eyes darted over her as he spoke, checking for signs of injury. She seemed to be unharmed, but her steps were unsteady as she approached, stopping just out of arm’s reach. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought her drunk.

He could see her trying to summon a retort, but then she sighed with a rueful half-smile, and he could tell that there was no fight left in her. “I feel like I’ve been to the seven hells and back… spare a bath and a bed for a weary adventurer?”

There was something almost sheepish in the way she asked, as if she was embarrassed by the request. He chose his response carefully, keenly aware that they were not alone on the street. “There will always be a place for the Warrior of Light in the Flame Barracks, if she desires it.”

He noted the tug at the corner of her lips, and the way she didn’t quite meet his eye as she offered a half-hearted jest. “Don’t say that… I might make a habit of it.”

To say what he needed to say would be too honest for the street and he swallowed the words as he gestured toward the Hall of Flames. “After you… Mistress Penni.”

They did not speak as they made their way through the labyrinth of the Barracks; she kept her distance, and he did not press to close the gap. Above them, rain tapped at the wooden roof, slowly building to drown out the sound of their footsteps on the stone steps up to the General’s quarters. He drew a bath for her still in silence, watching her out of the corner of his eye, noting the way she fidgeted and continued to avoid his gaze. She was holding him at arm’s length, and that at least was expected; after the last time, having her here at all was more than he deserved.

She had told him not to apologize, had let him hold her and try to soothe the damage he had done, even thanked him for giving her neither pity nor scorn… but she hadn’t let him stay, and wouldn’t meet his eye when she sent him back to his own quarters. Her absence from the breakfast table had been remarked upon, and her absence at the formal send off of the Ul’dahn delegation was conspicuous, but it was the complete absence of any word from her that had confirmed in his mind that the damage was irreparable. Which made her appearance here, now, all the more strange, all the more torturous.

And so he kept his distance, noting the invisible boundaries she had drawn around herself, parsing the meaning of her presence from afar.

He caught himself staring at the door of the washroom as it closed behind her, held in place by his own inertia. With a scowl, he tore himself away, crossing to his desk to find some distraction to occupy his troubled mind. The last of the day’s reports would have to suffice, the easy rhythm of a familiar task to pull him back from the brink of that rapidly deepening well of remorse. There was nothing in those papers that could not wait for morning, but to let his mind wander was not acceptable. So he would read his reports and draft his replies, and after she had bathed, he would see her to bed, and he would go back to his reports and the distraction and in the morning they would talk...

Outside, the late spring deluge pounded at the Flame Barracks, lashing at the windows of the General’s quarters with each howling gust of wind. A deep rumble of thunder rolled in from the distance, then another. Raubahn let himself be soothed by the sound, sinking deeper and deeper into an overlong treatise on the state of their northern defenses… 

The storm had cloaked the sound of her approach, but he felt the gentle shift of air and aether as she drew alongside him, seizing something deep in his chest. She leaned over him, one hand on the back of his chair, close enough to touch but still just out of reach. Her presence was almost overwhelming; he could smell the lingering scent of soap, feel the warmth rolling off her bare skin, so close to his own but still beyond that unspoken, unseen boundary. He didn’t move, minding the space between then, save to steal a glance up at her.

Moni looked almost a different person after her bath. The grime and weariness had been washed away and her dust-caked armor traded for a thin, short chemise that left her toned arms and long legs exposed to the cool night air. Her still-damp hair fell around her face in gentle waves, the lamplight basking her dark skin in a warm glow as she looked over his papers with a strange smile. She looked as at ease as if she were standing in her own home, a normal woman at the end of a normal day about to chide… 

Outside, the thunder rumbled, and for a moment, he felt a deep pang for something he couldn't name. It felt like longing, and it felt like regret, like the loss of something he’d never had to begin with. Then he realized that she was studying him with one of those cryptic smiles, and he looked away.

“What are you working on?” she asked, something surprisingly careful in her voice.

“Supply lines.” His own voice was gruffer than he’d intended, and he offered an elaboration to explain away his brusqueness as he pushed away from the desk to stand. “We’ve seen a sharp rise in raids on our caravans in and out of Southern Thanalan over the past two moons. It is not the Amal’jaa, but that does not offer much comfort.”

She just hummed thoughtfully, and leaned back against the desk beside him, her fingers just out of reach of his. He wondered if she knew how he ached to touch her… 

“Something I can help with?”

Of course she would offer. When it came to Thanalan, she always volunteered. He stared at the old scars and fresh scabs on her knuckles, and regretted bringing it up. “No, it is nothing you should concern yourself with. There are far greater matters that need your attention.”

“Do I have any say in what matters need my attention?” she snapped, a spark of anger in her eyes.

It was deserved, he supposed. Who was he to tell her what she should or shouldn’t do? When everyone else in Eorzea seemed more than happy to do just that? When he had… 

“Do you want to chase bandits around the desert?” he asked, cautiously.

She just frowned, her eyes fixed on some spot on the floor behind him, tension rising in her shoulders. Then she sighed petulantly, as if annoyed at her own weariness, “No…”

“What  _ do _ you want?” he pressed, careful to keep his voice low, his tone gentle.

She blinked at him, as if surprised by the question. Then she looked away again, something distant and unreadable clouding her expression. 

“I want to think about something that isn’t Ishgard and its damned war,” she murmured finally, her voice muffled behind her hands as she seemed to try to rub the weariness from her face. Then, after a long pause, she met his eyes with a look like a battering ram. “And I’d like to know what I’ve done to offend you…”

It was his turn to blink, caught completely off guard by the question. He reached for her without thinking but held just at the edge of that invisible line. “You have done nothing to offend me, Moni…”

“Then why won’t you touch me?”

The pugilist never danced long around a subject. He should not have been surprised.

“I assumed... that you did not wish for me to touch you,” he replied, honestly.

“Why would you think that?” The answer must have been written on his face, because realization tightened hers into a look that only deepened his shame. She reached for him, her fingers curling around his fist, and his skin burned at her touch. “Raubahn… that wasn’t your fault.”

Her voice was so gentle and so earnest that he wished that he could believe her, but he couldn’t even meet her eye. His own voice felt too heavy in his mouth as he whispered his confession. “But it was...”

He felt her grip on his hand tighten, then the brush of her fingers across his stubbled and scarred cheek. For a moment, he let himself accept her comfort, let her tilt his face toward hers. She said his name, a gentle command, and he opened his eyes to meet hers. 

“You weren’t the one who raped me.” Her voice was firm, her eyes full of conviction and absolution, but her words cut straight to the heart of his shame, giving a name to his guilt.

“I felt as if I was,” he whispered, pulling away from her touch. 

“You didn’t,” she insisted, another absolution, “it was an accident.”

It should have been enough. But the name of his sin was a bitter root in his mouth, and he bit down hard, coating his tongue with it. “What do you remember?”

“We were having a good time, you just squeezed a little too hard, and…” He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, feel her drawing away. “And after that it’s just the shit I’d rather not remember…”

“Which you should not have been forced to remember….” Shame turned to disgust and hardened his voice to a jagged edge. “You had to damned near break my jaw to make me stop, Moni. I violated you, and you were—”

He didn’t have to say it. She knew how broken she had been after… and she did not need him to remind her. Remorse pooled at the back of his throat, cold and choking.

“I lost control and you suffered for it,” he whispered hoarsely, bowing his head to finally accept her judgement. Breaths passed in silence, an eternity of agony, but then… 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

Something in her voice demanded that he look at her, and he could see the storm reflected in her eyes. “You tripped over a bad memory and you happened to be fucking me when it happened. You didn’t know.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised by her brutal candor, but it struck at something deep inside him, setting his blood aflame.  _ How could she be so callous?  _

“Forgive me if that does not bring me comfort,” he snapped, the words harder and more bitter than they needed to be. 

Lightning flashed in those pale eyes, and he could hear her straining through clenched teeth to keep her voice down as she bit back. “You know what I was! Gods, Raubahn, you shouldn’t even have to imagine the things that men have done to me and you  _ definitely _ shouldn’t have to see the scars they’ve left... You are a good man and you have nothing,  _ nothing  _ to be sorry for!”

“Other men’s sins do not give me the right to lay hands on you!” 

Her frustration was bleeding into him, hardening his words even as he struggled to keep his own volume in check, suddenly keenly aware of the clenching of his fist, the tension pulling his shoulders forward. He took a deep breath, trying to dull the edge before meeting her eyes again and adding, almost at the edge of pleading, “So please, tell me how to make this right...”

Moni stared at him, with furrowed brows and teeth bared between lips parted as if to hurl a retort, but her words seemed to have caught in her throat, something heartbreaking in her eyes as her expression softening until she looked as lost as he felt.

“You already have…”

“I don’t understand...” he replied, honestly.

“You stayed.” Her brows knit in consternation, her agitation rising with each step as she drew away to pace between the desk and the windows. “You stayed, and you apologized and held me and listened to what that godsdamned bastard did to me, and you didn’t fucking pity me for it. _Seven hells_ , Raubahn…”

Her voice broke on his name and she stilled, and he could see in the set of her jaw the tears she was refusing to shed. Sorrow crept into her eyes as she turned to meet his, scraping the edges of her voice raw.

“I sent you away and you welcomed me back with open arms…” she continued, her voice tight, “I can’t ask anything else of you…”

“That cannot be enough,” he pressed, wishing suddenly that he could promise her the head of every man who had laid hands on her, justice for every crime committed against her, but she just shook her head, unmoved, still holding him with that sorrowful gaze.

“It is for me…” she replied, a question in her voice, heavy with things left unsaid.

“You deserve more than mere comfort, Moni.”

A rueful half-smile tugged at the corner of her lips as her gaze drifted out the window, her expression clouded again with something grim and unreadable. “When have either of us ever gotten what we deserve?”

Again, she struck right to the heart, merciless in her honesty, but this time, at least, it was expected. Slowly, warily, Raubahn closed the gap between them, carefully weighing his response as he drew alongside her, following her gaze out into the night. Lightning flashed over the city, illuminating their reflections and all of their sadness for the briefest of moments. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” he answered, finally, solemnly, “but I would offer it all the same.”

“And what is it you think I deserve, General?”

He turned toward her cautiously, reaching for her hand to soothe away the last of the edge from her voice. She still would not meet his eyes, but she let him curl his fingers around hers, and thumb a gentle caress over her scarred and scabbed knuckles.

“I think,” he replied, steadily, earnestly, “that you deserve everything and anything your heart desires. Whatever is within my power to give, you need only say the word, and I would make it yours.”

He watched as her expression shifted, brows tilting then furrowing, lips parting then closing again. For a few moments, an eternity, she said nothing… but then she turned to look at him, penetrating and impenetrable. 

“Then I would have you tell me what you want.”

“What I want does not matter,” he answered, honestly, but too quickly.

“It matters to me,” she replied, low and firm and almost gentle. Then, with narrowed eyes and almost a smirk, she added, “and if you say my forgiveness I will  _ actually  _ break your jaw.”

Despite himself, he almost chuckled, a wry smile tugging at his lips, if only for a moment. He did not have to think on his response long, for it had been waiting to fall from his lips from the moment she had stepped out of the wreckage of Castrum Meridianum, a lifetime ago. 

“And if I were to say that I want you, and only you?”

She blinked, once, then again, lips parted in surprise, and then she frowned, something unreadable in her eyes as she looked away. “Then I would say you deserve better than a bitter old whore to warm your bed.”

At that he frowned in return, struck by her brutal self-degradation. He took a step forward, placing himself between her and the window, searching her expression as he pushed back. “Is that truly how you see yourself?”

“It’s what I am,” she replied, flatly.

Gingerly, he moved his hand to her chin, letting his calloused thumb brush over the arch of her cheekbone, softer than hope... a prayer, and a promise.

“Strange, then, for I see no such woman here,” he whispered, gently tilting her face up so she could see the truth in his eyes. “I only see a woman whose joy has vaulted me to the highest heavens and whose sorrow has dragged me to the deepest of the seven hells… A woman who can steal the breath from my lungs with a fleeting glance and leaves me grateful for the ache in my very bones every time she is not near… whose mere presence is far more than I shall ever deserve…”

Her jaw trembled under his fingers, and as the lightning flashed again, it caught on the threat of tears at the corners of her eyes, wide in shock as she stared up at him. He could hear the pounding of his heart over the lashing of the wind and the rain, and the look she gave him almost brought him to his knees.

“Is… is there someone else here I’m not seeing?” she finally managed, her stubborn attempt at a jest betrayed by the tremor in her voice.

“No,” he breathed, moving closer as he wiped away a tear that had managed to break free of her resolve. “I see only you, and I want only you… and I would know how I might earn the right to call you mine.”

For a moment, Moni simply stared, seemingly speechless, and he watched, not daring to move, as her expression slowly shifted again.

“There’s nothing to earn,” she declared, confusion knitting at her brow and a strange smile playing at the corner of her lips once more. 

“You are not nothing,” he countered, but she stayed him with tentative fingers whispering over his wrist.

“No, Raubahn… I mean... you have me. Gods, you… you don’t know?”

For a heartbeat, the Flame General forgot how to breathe. Then he exhaled, a rueful, almost sheepish chuckle.

“I’ve been a great bloody fool, haven’t I?”

“Perhaps…” she whispered, giving him an almost sheepish smile, “but then perhaps we both have…”

“I have never known you to suffer fools, Warrior of Light,” he replied, giving her a smirk in return as he let his hand fall to her waist, finally letting himself pull her close.

She breathed a soft laugh as she leaned in to murmur against his lips. “Then don’t make me suffer…”

It was a challenge, and Raubahn wanted nothing more than to rise to it. With one last silent prayer, he pressed his lips to hers, softly, gently, and she let him, and for those precious moments, it was enough for him.

*****

Outside, the storm raged, drowning out the clamor of leather and steel hitting the stone floor as Moni stripped away the Flame General, the duty, the guilt, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a man, laid bare before this woman whose most fleeting touch set his skin ablaze. Then suddenly, she was on her knees, head bowed as her deft fingers tugged at the straps of his caligae, his hand on her shoulder and her hand on his hip to balance as she slipped the sandals from his feet one by one, and again he felt the pang of that nameless thing deep in his chest, but this time there was no regret, only a different kind of longing… 

This time, she was his, and he longed to touch her, to please her, to give her everything and more...

As her fingers smoothed up his thighs, her lips trailed down the plane of his stomach to brush against his desire, sending a levinbolt up his spine, but he swallowed the rising urges in his core as he stopped her.

“No,” he breathed, willing command into the single syllable. He would give before he would receive.

“No?” she echoed with a curious smile, brow quirked in surprise as she looked up at him, but she offered no protest as he pulled her to her feet and kissed her again.

His hand moved to the small of her back, guiding her to lean against the desk, and soft, bare skin brushed over the scars above his knee as she hooked one leg over his hip, inviting him to curl his fingers around the supple curve of her thigh, to press against her heat and make them both moan in anticipation. She sighed as his hand slid higher, giving way to a throaty gasp against his lips as his thumb dug into the sensitive hollow of her inner thigh. He slipped his fingers under the hem of her chemise as he bent to kiss the long bow of her neck, need rumbling in his own throat.

Moni pushed him away just enough to whisk the flimsy garment over her head and let it fall to the floor at their feet. Torchlight flickered over her slate skin, catching on the edges of scars like levin bolts over squalls of bruises and rivers of lean muscle as she hooked her thumbs under the edge of her smalls, slowly sliding them from her hips, never once taking her eyes off of him. She was breathtakingly, achingly beautiful, a woman made of storms, looking upon what was hers with desire on her lips.

“How would you have me, General?” 

She had to know what effect such a question would have on him; the sly tug at the corners of her mouth as she appraised him would have him believe naught otherwise. Equally, she had to know that he would offer only one response.

He leaned in to ghost a reverent kiss over the flutter of her pulse. “What would please you most, my lady?”

Her fingers curled through his hair as he kissed his way down the graceful line of her neck, her breath warm and unsteady against his ear. “Will you make me forget…?”

“Aye,” he whispered, bowing to kiss the hollow of her shoulder.

He would make her forget. Forget her pain and her burdens and Ishgard and its damned war. He would sooth away her sorrow, and give her nothing but bliss in return. 

Her breath faltered as he followed the map of her scars with his mouth, escaping in muffled gasps as he paid tribute at the gentle slope of her breasts. Continuing down her stomach, taut and trembling, he could feel her hands at his shoulders, fingers tracing tender caresses over the hard ridges of his own scars, giving his devotion back to him, and it swelled in his chest until he thought it might burst.

But as his lips brushed against a hard, jagged line a few ilms below her navel, he felt her whole body tense against him, her breath a hiss between clenched teeth. He froze, eyes darting up to beg forgiveness, but she met his gaze with a soft, apologetic smile, bending to brush a loose hair from his brow.

“Not that one…” she whispered, and he nodded, the look in her eye telling him everything he needed to know.

“Not that one,” he echoed with a nod, shifting to press a gentle kiss to the side of the scar, feeling her relax beneath him once more as he kissed his way across the valley between her hips. He let his arm slip around her leg, fingertips lingering over a fading bruise as he knelt between her thighs and gods there was nowhere he would rather have been.

For a moment, he hesitated, casting his gaze up to meet hers. “If I may, my lady…”

“Please…” she answered, barely a breathless whisper.

With her leave, he bowed his head to her and breathed her in, pressing the bridge of his nose to the soft patch of black hair, feeling her twitch in anticipation as he exhaled slowly against her. Beckoned by the greedy tilt of her hips, he pressed again, feeling her pulse quicken under his fingertips as he trailed his lips over her glistening opening. The first slow, probing stroke of his tongue between her folds drew a shudder; the second, deeper and firmer, a moan; and the third, long and deliberate as it circled her most sensitive place, a breathless, trembling “ _ fuuuck… _ ”

Raubahn let her body guide him, reading her shudders and sighs with every kiss and every stroke, taking stock of where she was most sensitive, and where he ought to press. Pride surged in his chest with every stuttering moan that tumbled from her lips, and he relished the shudders of her thighs and the pressure of her heels digging into his back as she writhed and panted all over his reports and his maps and his duty and  _ gods _ , there was never anything so beautiful. 

“I— oh fu—” Her voice was a ragged murmur, whispered into her own elbow, her hips bucking of their own accord against his forearm.

Raubahn tightened his grip, holding her steady, focusing his attention on the exact spot that had made her swear so breathlessly. His own desire had risen to an aching throb, but he pressed on, feeling the tension building in her until at last it snapped. Her whole body convulsed as she came, her thighs gripping the sides of his head like a vice, her keening muffled but unmistakable. The throes of her ecstasy only urged him on harder, driving her higher and higher until her hips were straining against his arm, every muscle of her lithe body taut, her perfect face frozen in a silent scream of ecstasy.

And then, as if every onze of strength had been sapped from her body, she went limp, her legs trembling as they slipped from his shoulders. A gentle kiss to her thigh earned him a shiver and a feeble grunt of protest. Planting one last kiss against the soft skin of her navel, and ignoring the stiffness that had crept into his knees, Raubahn rose to his feet to find his love, the Warrior of Light, Champion of Eorzea, sprawled across his desk, naked as the dawn and glistening with sweat, completely, utterly, and  _ radiantly _ undone. 

There was no weariness or worry left on her brow; no trace of Ishgard or its bloody war in the crook of her smile; nothing but bliss in her breathless laughter as she reached for him. 

He let her pull him close, trusting the balance of her palm against his shoulder as he stole a few selfish moments to cherish the sight of her, breathless and wanting. Her hair pooled around her face, a dark halo against off-white parchment, her features illuminated in exquisite relief with each flash of lightning; sharp angles and graceful lines; quicksilver eyes under heavy lids; full, dark lips parted just so… 

He felt her arch beneath him, chest flush with his, those full lips reaching hungrily as slender fingers slipped between them, anointing him, leading him… and then she whispered his name, an urgent plea as she embraced him, her long legs slipping around his waist to draw him in deeper, inviting him to lose himself in her, to finally take what was his, and  _ Twelve… _

For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a vision of purest light, blinding in its radiance, and her name fell from his lips as an awestruck prayer. He dared not move, sure he would succumb to madness in her arms, but then she kissed him and rolled her hips as a peel of thunder shook the walls around them and  _ seven hells… _

Her fingers grasped at the small of his back, her voice full of need and affection as she whispered, “I want to feel you in the morning...”

With that, she slipped the last tether from its moorings, and then there was only the storm, and her. 

He let himself be pulled into the ebb and flow of her, pressing deeper and deeper as he met each thrust of her body with his own, each harder than the last, until he was dashing himself against her hips as they rose to meet him, a relentless, surging tide dragging him down into her depths. Like a siren’s call, he could hear her voice, breathless and keening over the roar of the wind, urging him on, harder,  _ harder _ , _ oh gods, Raubahn, please don’t stop... _

He felt her crest beneath him, thighs trembling and core seizing around him, but he did not falter, riding wave after wave, higher and higher… and still she urged him on, demanding all he would give, and by the Twelve, he would give her  _ everything _ .

Her hand slipped from his shoulder, and he felt her slender, shaking fingers reaching for his as he kissed her, slow and deep. He curled his fingers around hers, urged on by the pounding of the wind and the thunder and her breath heavy and hot against his lips as she matched his pace. Her grip tightened, her hips shuddering beneath him, her voice a breathless, joyful command against his lips. 

“...come for me…”

That was all it took. He let the tides of her hips draw him at last to his peak, heat coiling at the base of his spine as he hurtled toward oblivion. Her name caught in his throat, passing his lips as a ragged groan as he plunged over the edge, and for a heartbeat he saw only blackness. For a heartbeat he wondered if this was death. And for a heartbeat he thought this was a fine way to die.

Then he felt her fingertips caressing his jaw, and his lips moved with their own will, letting truth fall against her damp skin. It sounded like ‘I love you’, but then she kissed him, and nothing else mattered. 

She cradled him in her arms as he settled heavily against her; those graceful, scarred hands, capable of felling gods but so heartbreakingly gentle as she held him close and soothed the heaving of his chest, caressing the tension from his shoulders and brushing stray hairs from his sweat-soaked brow.

Suddenly, he felt tears, hot and wet, pooling where her cheek pressed to his, and he did not know if they had fallen from her eyes, or his own, but that didn’t matter either. He felt her grasping for him, dragging her thumb along his cheekbone as her lips found their way to his again, reassuring him, praising him with each caress.

Perhaps he  _ had _ died, and this was his reward…

No… 

In that moment, with his lips crushed to hers, heart pounding and muscles aching, Raubahn felt more alive than he had in moons. He was alive, and this beautiful, unpredictable, impossible woman holding him close was real and here and  _ his. _


	2. Doubt

Moni awoke, with an undignified snort and the acute sensation of a rail spike being driven through her right eye, to the sound of a woman snoring and very few memories of the night before. 

Ignoring the throbbing in her head, she pushed herself up, regretting the motion almost immediately as a wave of nausea rolled up from the pit of her stomach as if in retribution for whatever she had done. Swallowing hard, the Elezen willed her body to cooperate as she tried to piece together the events of prior evening.

Most of it was a blur of dark liquor and dirty limericks, but she had a vague recollection of stumbling back to this room, draped over Hilda’s shoulders and muttering what was in all likelihood something deeply personal and potentially embarrassing. Grimacing, she glanced over at the other woman. Hilda was still sleeping, face down and mouth agape, a puddle of drool forming on the pillow beneath her cheek. She supposed she had woken up to worse… 

They were both still clothed, a small mercy which she greeted with a relieved sigh, though she did note the pile of boots and jackets at the foot of the bed as she swung her legs over the side of the mattress. Her stomach churned again, and she winced as the light from the dawning sun broke through a crack in the shutters, reminding her why, as a general rule, she did not drink with the Mongrel. 

Leaning back with a frown, she gave Hilda a gentle shove. If she had to be awake and endure the consequences of their debauchery, then so would her drinking partner. 

The other woman snorted and grumbled, swatting Moni’s hand away and earning herself a solid smack on the backside.

“Oy! Wasat for?” Hilda yelped, rising to her elbows with an indignant pout.

“The seven hells did you do to me last night?”

“Nothing you didn’t ask for,” she responded with a cheeky grin, rolling over to wrap her arms around Moni’s waist.

“Hilda. Tell me we didn’t,” Moni demanded flatly, frowning down at the half-hyur woman clinging to her midsection.

“No, but not for lack of trying…” the girl replied, relenting with a faint pout on her lips.

“On _your_ part,” Moni scolded, struck with a sudden flash of a very drunk and very handsy Hilda trying to put her fingers in places they had no business being. She gave the other woman a look of feigned indignation, clutching at imaginary pearls in a mockery of an Ishgardian noblewoman. “Was that your plan all along, Mongrel? Get the Warrior of Light blackout drunk and have your way with her?”

“Sure, too bad you weren’t letting anyone have any kind of way with you…” Hilda drawled back, shading her eyes from the intruding rays of dawn. “Which begs the question… who _is_ having their way with you?”

Moni froze. 

“ _What?_ ”

“What do you mean, what?” Hilda replied with a shrug. “You’re obviously fucking someone.”

“Why, because I managed to resist your whiskey soaked charms?” Moni retorted over her shoulder as she reached for her boots.

Hilda frowned back for the span of a heart beat, before bursting into a devious grin. “When you put it like that… yes!”

*****

“Two dragoons’ breakfasts, Gibrillont.”

Moni leaned heavily against the bar of the Forgotten Knight, attempting in vain to rub the throbbing from her temples. The dining room was mercifully quiet, at least by the Forgotten Knight’s standards. The low hum of conversation and muffled clatter from the kitchen were at least tolerable, for now.

“And a pot of yer stiffest tea!” Hilda added, boisterously, hurtling another lance through Moni’s skull.

“You want that with or without the hair of the dog?” Gibrillont asked, giving the pair a knowing smirk. 

“Do you even have to ask?” Hilda replied with a shameless grin.

“Mistress Penni?”

“Without,” she replied, tersely, the thought of putting any more alcohol in her body prodding unpleasantly at her stomach.

The innkeeper nodded, assured them their tea would be right up, and departed, having no particular interest in sticking around to see the Warrior of Light in all her hungover glory. 

“Thanks, Gibby!” Hilda called after him, before turning and settling on her elbow, hand at her chin, to give Moni a shite-eating grin.

“Gods, are you always so shrill?” Moni growled, cursing both her own ears and Hilda’s apparent indifference to her suffering.

“Are you always such a cunt?” Hilda replied, smiling sweetly.

“Only to you, my friend,” Moni sniped back with her own treacle-sweet smile. 

Before either woman could continue their petty performance, however, Gibrillont returned with their tea, giving the two a subtly curious and not so subtly judgemental look over before turning to attend to his next customer. The women, their squabble at least momentarily forgotten, fell upon the simple tea service with the gusto of a parched man upon a desert oasis.

Cradling her cup between her palms, Moni leaned forward on her elbows and breathed deeply of the fragrant steam wafting up from the rich and highly caffeinated brew, letting the combination of heat and herbs soothe the sharp throbbing in her temples. Blessedly, Hilda had gone silent, similarly positioned against the bar beside her with her own steaming cup.

The first sip was slightly too hot, burning the tip of her tongue, and Moni pursed her lips, blowing a gentle stream of air over the dark surface of the tea before trying again. This time the burn was more subdued, and the rich notes of bergamot, lemongrass, and something else unidentifiable but pleasantly tangy washed over her taste buds. The next sip went down soothingly, her sore throat - likely raw from the prior evening’s baudy recitations of some of Ul’dah’s filthier drinking songs - welcoming the warmth of the beverage even as the rest of her body welcomed the caffeine.

“That’s better…” she sighed to no one in particular, before taking another sip and letting it linger over her tongue.

Hilda hummed in agreement, her own tea spiked with a splash of gin and a dollop of honey and already half gone. Then she hummed again, more thoughtfully this time. “Y’know, Moni, I was starting to wonder if there was a real person under that hard-eyed scowl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Moni asked, flatly, the corner of her lips dipping in annoyance. 

“I mean you’re always so stoic and serious about everything. I don’t think I’d even seen you crack a real smile before last night _,_ ” the younger woman replied, with a pointed look and a rueful smirk. “Your friends were starting to worry about you.”

“Which friends?” the Elezen snapped back indignantly.

“Me, Thancred, Tataru,” Hilda shrugged, tilting her teacup and taking a long sip before turning her crimson gaze back on Moni. “I’m just saying, everybody needs to unwind now and then. It was nice to see you cut loose without it involving violence.”

Gibrillont returned, with a slight flourish, preempting Moni’s chance of a response with two massive platters holding what appeared to be every item on the inn’s breakfast menu; stacks of Ishgardian toast and wheatcakes, soaked in butter and maple syrup, topped with slices of spiced apple and rashers of bacon, flanked by fat links of sausage and chucks of roasted potatoes and cabbage swimming in grease, with a side of fried eggs and hard cheese on thick, dark bread. He gave the two women an incredulous glance but kept his commentary to himself as he bid them enjoy their breakfasts and to call for him should they need anything.

As a rule, Moni did not break fast in the mornings, with the exception of very strong black tea, and mornings like this. In her mind, there was no hangover cure better than the pitas stuffed with greasy, heavily spiced meat of dubious origin that could be purchased along Sapphire Avenue just after dawn, but the Ishgardian “dragoons’ breakfast” was a close second.

Moni tucked in without a word, letting the protein and starch and grease soak up whatever alcohol remained in her stomach and replenish her vitals. It was only after most of the Ishgardian toast and bacon had been consumed that Hilda finally broke the silence, leaning back to catch her breath as she wiped flecks of syrup from her lips and shot Moni another pointed look.

“So. What made you decide to finally come out drinking with me?”

“You finally wore me down,” Moni replied sarcastically, still feeling prickly.

“You sure know how to make a girl feel special,” Hilda volleyed, the impish twinkle in her eye precluding any sympathy on Moni’s part. “But seriously. You obviously don’t drink, and whatever got the desert monk to abandon her sobriety so _spectacularly_ has to be worth talking about.”

Moni opened her mouth as if to hurl a retort, but something caught her and she just frowned pensively instead, knowing that the girl was right. The words to describe the events of the past fortnight were, however, out of her reach, and she grasped for anything to say instead. How could she tell this girl, this bright eyed young thing who had never even stepped beyond the walls of Ishgard, that she had entered an ancient and powerfully, bewilderingly magic library to find the last aetheric traces of a woman who had been whisked into the lifestream by what could only be described as a god?

And Minfilia, that foolish girl, merged with Hydaelyn in some misguided attempt to prove her own usefulness… The broken, hollow look in Thancred’s eyes when she informed him of the girl’s choice had pulled at something in Moni’s chest, something that ached as it pressed against her ribs like grief, but not for Minfilia.

“It’s been a long and very strange fortnight,” she finally offered, blinking as her vision refocused on the half-eaten breakfast before her. “Like you said, everybody needs to unwind now and again.”

Hilda didn’t seem to have a smart retort to that, and instead settled thoughtfully back onto her elbows, prodding her cabbage with her fork. “That bad, huh?”

“Aye…”

“We don’t have to talk about it…” the half-Hyur said softly, reaching for the teapot and avoiding Moni’s gaze as she fixed herself a second cup, this time with a more generous dollop of honey, but without the gin. This sudden chastened demeanor was unexpected, but short lived, and Hilda was soon regarding Moni with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’d much rather hear about this mystery lover of yours.”

Moni almost choked on her own tea, and had to cough for several seconds before she could muster a response. “What, exactly, is your preoccupation with my sex life?”

“I have a professional curiosity.” Hilda prodded, grinning like a coeurl that had gotten the canary. “Tell me, Warrior of Light, what kind of person is capable of getting through that formidable guard of yours? Someone just as stubborn, I’d reckon… someone like that Estinien bloke, perhaps?”

“Hilda, please, I’m old enough to be his mother,” Moni scowled, stabbing a chunk of potato with her fork and shoving it into her mouth to preclude further comment.

“Ok… Someone older, then…” Hilda mused, undeterred, before pausing with a queer look and leaning in to whisper, vaguely horrified, “Don’t tell me you’re sleeping with Lord Edmont.”

“I am _not_ sleeping with the Count de Fortemps. Why do you assume he’s Ishgardian, or even a he, for that matter?”

“Ooh, you’ve got a secret lover stashed away in Ul’dah, don’t you?”

Moni said nothing, shoving a generous slice of sausage into her mouth instead.

“A gladiator maybe? Or a sell sword… I imagine they’d have to be pretty scrappy if they hoped to dance with you. They would definitely have to have the scars to match yours.”

Hilda didn’t know how close she was, and while Moni was determined to give her nothing upon which to seize, that didn’t seem to matter to the Mongrel now that she'd gotten the scent of the truth.

“But you wouldn’t be this tight-lipped unless this mysterious lover is someone you aren’t supposed to be with… You don’t seem the type to take a married lover…”

Moni sighed, exasperated, and gave Hilda a stern sidelong look. “Have you considered that I might just be trying to protect them?”

Hilda withdrew, as if chastened, before leaning back in with a strange, searching look in her eye. “You’re in love with them, aren’t you?”

“I-” Moni faltered, scowling to cover her own uncertainty and suddenly desperate to make this line of questioning stop. “That is none of your business.”

“You’re deflecting,” her companion shot back, brandishing a forkful of cabbage.

“And you’re being a nosy cunt,” Moni retorted, shaking a rasher of bacon at her companion scoldingly, before stuffing it in her mouth to preclude further discussion.

*****

Whatever lingering effects of the prior evening breakfast had failed to cure were swiftly snapped away by a frigid Ishgardian morning breeze as Moni stepped out of the tavern and into Saint Valeroyant’s Forum. After their rather unnerving breakfast conversation, she was eager to put space between herself and her shameless friend, and had begged off with the excuse that she needed to attend to “Scion business”. 

But as she walked through the frozen streets and alleys up toward the Pillars, Hilda’s question nagged and gnawed at the back of her mind. _You’re in love with them, aren’t you?_

Love was an emotion with which she had, if she was honest, little to no experience, and what little she _did_ have hadn't made her keen to repeat the experience… She wasn’t even sure what it meant to be “in love”, and the thought that she might be in love with Raubahn had not been allowed to so much as cross her mind, for reasons too numerous and complex to count. So then what did she feel for him, this man to whom she had given herself without so much as a second thought?

Their physical attraction was undeniable, that much she knew… there was no one else she wanted to bed… and she cared for him in a way that surprised her at times… She respected him, certainly, and trusted him like few others in her life. She felt safe with him, and yet he invoked in her at the same time a deep kind of unease for which she lacked words. It was a sort of restlessness… a feeling as if her chest was too full and too empty all at once… a sense of longing for something she hadn’t realized was missing. 

There had been only one other lover - if he could even be called such - who had provoked a feeling even remotely similar, and that had been when she was too young and too foolish to see the disaster that it would bring her… And maybe disaster still awaited her now, even when she was older and wiser and more cautious with her heart… but something about this felt different, something that pulled at her, warm and inviting, that made her want to throw caution to the wind and do and say foolish things…

So lost in her own thoughts was she that she very nearly walked right past the Fortemps Manor, and it was only the warm, if slightly confused greeting of the house guard that snapped her back to the frigid present. Setting her expression into a flat mask to hide her own disquiet, she returned the guard’s greeting politely, and stepped up to the door to face whatever might be awaiting her on the other side.

What was waiting was the Count de Fortemps, taking his morning tea in the foyer and clearly anticipating her return.

“Good morning, Mistress Penni,” he greeted her, giving her a look not unlike that of a disapproving father who had just caught his daughter coming home past curfew. “We were concerned when you did not return last night; I am full glad to see you hale and whole.”

“Edmont, I am almost of an age with you,” she said, trying to sound chastising as she sank onto the settee opposite him and reached for the ornate tea service between them. “There is no need for you to waste your concern on my wellbeing.”

“That may be,” he replied, leaning forward to take hold of the teapot before her fingers could reach it and giving her a gently admonishing look as he poured her a cup, ”but you are still a ward of my house, for whom I do have a certain fondness, so perhaps you might indulge an old man in his worries.”

Moni just sighed, defeated, and accepted the gesture with a wry half smile. “You see me off to fight dragons, and it’s a night out at the tavern that gets me scolded...”

Edmont returned her jab with another admonishing look that did little to hide his own smirk, but no retort, and the two fell into a companionable silence as they sipped at their tea and enjoyed the rare quiet of the morning. Moni, for her part, was more than content to simply savor the silence, and the Count’s excellent brew - she knew he blended his own leaves, for this was one of the few things the otherwise odd pair had found over which they might bond - but her wandering mind apparently had no intention of giving her any respite, and soon her thoughts were drifting once more to that nagging question and the unrest it stirred in the pit of her stomach.

“Is the tea not to your liking?”

 _Bugger_. The Count’s seemingly preternatural ability to read her as effortlessly as Urianger read his dusty tomes never failed to catch her off guard, even after all these moons, and she fumbled as she tried to wave away his concern with feigned ignorance and a feigned smile. “What? No, it’s superb as always. Why do you ask?”

“You seem troubled… Or perhaps simply suffering the consequences of your own libatious indulgence?” he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

For a moment, she considered letting him believe that kindly falsehood, but her pride wouldn’t stand for it. Instead, she gave him a vaguely irritated look, as if offended that he would accuse her of being hungover, and secretly hoping to steer the conversation away from what was _actually_ troubling her. “Are you suggesting I can’t hold my liquor, my lord?”

“I would not dream of insulting you so,” Edmont chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Well then, if it is not my tea or an excess of drink that has soured your expression, pray tell what has?”

There was something jarring in the sincerity in his eyes, and Moni found that she couldn’t hold his gaze, much less bring herself to spin some lie to cover for her now obvious consternation. She stared down at the delicate teacup in her hands, far finer than anything she would have dreamt of drinking from even at the height of her glory days, gnawing at the inside of her lip as she grasped for the words to explain herself. After a long silence, and without lifting her gaze, she settled on a query in return.

“May I ask you a personal question?”

“I suppose that should depend on the question,” Edmont replied, his curiosity clearly piqued as he studied her over the rim of his own cup.

She paused again, taking a deep breath to steel herself as she finally looked up. If she was going to ask this of him, the least she could do was have the courage to meet his eye. “Have you ever been in love?”

The Count’s brow shot up, and for a brief moment a strange look passed over his expression, but it disappeared into a gentle, almost indulgent smile. “Ah, that is a rather personal question…” He paused, appraising her, considering his response. “Why do you ask?”

 _Well, shite._

She should have known she wasn’t going to get a straight answer from the staid old man, and she _should_ have expected that he would find some way to turn it back on her, but she was already of the back foot, and his rather direct query caught her stumbling and there was no point trying to hide it. He saw right through her, as clearly as Limsan glass. So it was with great fortune that Alphinaud should choose that precise moment to burst through the front door and into the middle of this increasingly uncomfortable conversation.

A blast of cold air announced his arrival, followed swiftly by the lad’s breathless proclamations of “There you are, I have been to the Brume and back looking for you,” and “The Lord Commander sent a messenger requesting an audience.”

“It’s barely the eighth bell, what could he possibly want at this hour?” she sighed, setting her only half-enjoyed tea to the side and silently thanking whatever god might be listening for the distraction. 

“Apparently our friend is planning a peace conference, and wishes to extend a personal invitation,” he replied, without missing a beat, giving her a vaguely reproachful once over as he continued, “though I might I suggest that the Warrior of Light may wish to _freshen up_ before she meets with the Lord Commander…”

Alphinaud was, irritatingly, correct. She followed his gaze down to her rumpled, faintly soiled attire, catching a distinct whiff of alcohol as her nose passed in range of her shoulder. “Cheeky… but yes, she would. I hope the Lord Commander wasn’t expecting us any time in the hour… or two?”

“We are expected at a quarter past the ninth bell, and it is already nearly half past the eighth. I trust you can do that math?” 

Cheeky little shit.

“ _Yes_ ,” she replied, sharply, “and perhaps we may even arrive on time. I’m going to take a bath, so you and the Lord Commander can hold onto your lordly smalls.”

Alphinaud opened his mouth to deliver some protest to join the Count’s scandalized sputtering, but Moni was already up and loping for the stairs, eager to put swift distance between herself and the minefield she had very nearly walked right into.

In the privacy of her own quarters, she let out an exhausted sigh, feeling the previous evening’s sins in her joints and the morning’s conversations in the pit of her stomach. Without thinking, she found herself drifting toward the bedside table, stopping herself only as her fingers brushed the handle of the topmost drawer. 

This wasn’t the time for that. 

Instead, she shuffled to the washroom, where she busied herself with drawing a bath before leaning over the sink to take in her own disheveled appearance while the tub filled. She had seen worse days, but it was painfully obvious that she had not bathed or changed since the morning before last. It was a wonder that Alphinaud had been the first to comment on her sorry state.

With a groan, she stripped off her jacket and shirt, and pulled the ornate silver clip holding back her hair before bending to yank off her boots and shimmy out of her pants and smalls. Kicking her soiled clothes to the corner - close enough to the hamper - she took a moment to appraise herself in the mirror. 

The Dragonsong War was written all over her body; her shape was leaner, its angles sharper, hollowed out and marred here and there by new scars - the shapes of claw and fire joining arrow and blade. She let her fingers roam over each mark, tracing the edges of memories, lingering over some and fleeting over others, letting her hands smooth over the lines of her torso as she turned about, inspecting herself from all angles, trying to see herself the way _he_ saw her; like something beautiful, something… worthy.

A warm, pleasant sensation bloomed in her chest as she thought of the last time he had looked at her in such a state, getting dressed in his quarters after her stolen visit to Ul’dah, a fortnight past now. They had spent the night holding each other close and breathing secrets against one another’s lips as they fought the call of sleep, their limbs tangled and fingers intertwined, morning coming far too quickly. She felt a fond smile tug at her lips as she thought of how easily they had fallen into their own rhythm, their own routine, moving around each other in a dance of near misses and fleeting touches. Her heart quickened at the thought of how natural it felt to help him into his armor, to check the fit of his straps as his fingers roamed her bare skin, tempting her to take it all off again, and how she hadn’t needed to; how he had pressed her to the door of his wardrobe, that grip like stone and leather on her thigh, his breath hot in her ear as he—

Moni blinked, realizing that her fingers had crept to her breasts and the warmth had plunged from her chest to her belly, begging for relief. She huffed at her reflection, scolding herself. She was supposed to be getting ready for an official meeting with the Lord Commander, not daydreaming about a clandestine one with the Flame General…

Dropping her hands back to her sides, she spun on one heel to check on the tub, which had been left neglected and was starting to sound dangerously full. It was, blessedly, only slightly overfilled, and after a quick tug on the drainstop to let out the excess water, she stepped in and sank into the bath with a weary sigh.

The water was just on the edge of too hot, stinging her skin but heaven on her sore muscles and stiff joints. The cold made her bones ache and her muscles burn in a way the desert never did, but the heat of the water dissolved that tension like an elixir. She drew her knees up and sank in deeper, until only her head remained above water. She let herself be cradled by it, her long limbs drifting almost imperceptibly in the gentle current, and closed her eyes as she tilted her head back to rest against the rim of the tub. It was like being wrapped in an embrace… in his embrace…

Seven hells… 

Moni huffed again, lurched upright to grab for the soap and a clean washcloth, sending water sloshing over the sides of the tub, in turn triggering a slew of muttered epithets from her lips. Willing herself to focus on her upcoming meeting, and the duties that were sure to follow, she commenced with scrubbing away the grime of the past days, taking care not to linger overlong near any sensitive areas lest she give temptation any more of a foothold. 

She washed her hair quickly, trying not to think about the way his fingertips felt running through the short hairs at the nape of her neck, and rinsed herself off, straining not to imagine those same fingers washing her so gently after he had ravished her on his desk, too impatient to take the few extra steps to the bed… 

Bloody hells…

What was this man _doing_ to her?

With an exasperated groan, she leaned forward to pull the plug from the drain and pull herself to her feet. So much for enjoying her morning soak, then.

Moni swiped the excess moisture from her limbs, shaking droplets from her fingertips as she stepped out of the tub onto the plush mat and reached for the towel hung with care on the back of the door. She dried herself off roughly, making a mental checklist of what she would need to pack if Lord Borel decided to send her afield; practicing what to say if he tried to rope her into some diplomatic venture as she brushed and pinned her hair; anything to avoid thinking about Raubahn. 

Normally, she would have followed her bath by massaging a rejuvenating salve into her damp skin, but such an activity was almost certainly too stimulating for her present state, and she skipped to rubbing another tonic over her face, an infusion of herbs and willow bark to cleanse and tighten the skin. She followed this with a thick balm smelling faintly of jasmine and cocoa butter to keep the wrinkles at bay, which she rubbed vigorously over her face and neck, kneading it into her skin in long, practiced strokes as she absolutely did not think about the rough pads of his fingertips ghosting over her cheek as he kissed her farewell…

She dressed with a determined swiftness, tugging on her heaviest sweater and trousers, followed by a pair of boots and a thick coat with slightly less accumulated road grime than the rest. A glance at the chronometer on the wall by the door told her she still had a few minutes to spare. Alphinaud would certainly be pleased…

But she wasn’t ready to face Alphinaud, and Edmont, and the Lord Commander and all his knights most holy just yet. With a resigned sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed, eyeing the topmost drawer of her bedside table. 

With another sidelong glance at the chronometer, she reached over and opened the drawer. Nestled among the clean handkerchiefs and jars of salves and rolls of gauze was a small wooden box, inlaid with delicate desert lilies of gold and mother of pearl. For a moment she simply stared at it, marveling at the master craftsmanship and the way the morning light played across the pearlescent flowers, before carefully picking it up and cradling it in one hand, the fingertips of her other hand lingering over the impossibly smooth surface of the lid.

A fond smile and fonder laughter played over her lips at the memory of the mighty Flame General, hesitant, even _shy,_ as he had pressed the little box into her hands. “A token of my affection,” he had called it, an almost comical understatement given how much the box alone must have cost, to speak nothing of its contents. Of course she had stubbornly tried to refuse it, insisting that he shouldn’t have, but he had silenced her protests with a gentle command. _Open it._

Gingerly, she lifted the lid, just as she had that morning, and her breath caught in her throat, just as it had that morning and every morning since. Nestled in a lining of rich blue satin was an intricately filigreed linkpearl and matching necklace, each styled with the same motif and crafted with the same masterful care as the box which contained them. 

They were exquisite to look upon, glimmering in the sunlight, almost radiant against the box’s lining. He had commissioned them just for her, handcrafted by the goldsmith guild master herself, something both beautiful and practical - “and perhaps a bit selfish.” The linkpearl was to replace the one lost during her exile from Ul’dah; the necklace, a clever use of aetheric magic, to connect the linkpearl to a secure link to him and him alone. “So that you might call upon me whenever you should want or need,” he had explained, adding, almost sheepishly, “Pipin’s idea.”

She had received gifts in the past, beautiful jewelry and expensive silks from clients wishing to adorn her in symbols of their largess; but those had always been more about the giver than about her. This, though… there was care and thought behind this; this gift was for _her_ , and she hadn’t known how to thank him, how to tell him what it meant to her. Just like she hadn’t known what to say when he’d whispered that he loved her when he thought she wouldn’t hear him...

The chronometer chimed the ninth bell behind her, its cheery tune interrupting her thoughts and precluding any possibility of sneaking in a call. With a sharp exhale, she snapped the box shut and tucked it into the breast pocket of her coat as she stood to face whatever duty had in store for her.

This was going to be a long day.

*****

Seven. Bloody. Hells.

This was supposed to have been a simple mission. Show up to Falcon’s Nest, look intimidating, maybe fight a dragon. Easy, straightforward…

So how in Thal’s balls had it gone tits up faster than a gambler in a thieves’ den?

Gods damned Emmanellain… Who in their sound mind had thought that leaving that spineless fop in charge bore even a passing resemblance to a good idea? The stupid boy couldn’t even keep track of his own squire, much less handle the rebellion that had just descended upon the outpost in the absence of competent leadership...

Moni sighed, heavy and weary, turning her gaze to the tiny figure in the bed beside her, battered and bruised by the misdirected rage of the Lord Commander’s esteemed guests… She could understand their anger, but she couldn’t even begin to grasp the impulse to take that anger out on a child… 

The sight of Honoroit - steadfast, hopeful, and so heartbreakingly young - wound something tight and fearful deep in the pit of her stomach, in the place where life was meant to begin, but where it would never quicken again. There had been a time when this feeling had been familiar; striking when she looked upon other women’s children, when she’d cared for another woman’s son. There had even been a time when she had made peace with it; a truce forged in the acceptance of a fact she could do nothing to change.

But now, looking upon this child, that hard won peace was crumbling, just as surely as that which Ser Aymeric was trying so desperately to forge in the face of his own people’s seemingly insurmountable grief and unyielding rage. She thought of the mother in the graveyard of her vision, of the future that had been ripped from her hands… and she thought of the sorrow she had felt, and the anger, so raw it may as well have been her own. Minfillia called it Hydaelyn’s “blessing”, but Moni knew it only as a curse.

Moni sank in her chair, tilting her head back to stare at the cross beams above as she blinked away the threat of tears. She couldn’t blame this feeling on Hydaelyn or the Echo, as much as she wanted to… Exhaling another sigh, she closed her eyes, willing herself to think of something - anything - else to distract her from the coils in her stomach, the weight in her chest.

Apparently fate was feeling generous, and for the second time that day intervened with a timely interruption. Somewhere to her left, the infirmary door creaked, and careful footsteps echoed through the otherwise silent room. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know who had just intruded on her silent reflection.

“It’s not polite to sneak up on people, Thancred,” she said, flatly and low so as not to disturb her sleeping charge.

“Not really sneaking if you can hear me coming, is it…” he shot back, matching her tone and volume, his footsteps stopping somewhere near the foot of the bed.

“Or maybe you’re just losing your touch,” she replied, finally meeting her compatriot’s eye with a half-hearted smirk as she sat up in her chair.

Thancred was leaning against the footboard, regarding her with his own half-hearted smirk and looking twice as tired as she felt. She wondered if he had slept a full night since they had returned from the Hinterlands; she knew the look of a man torturing himself, but she also knew better than to pry. He held his cards closer to his chest than she did, and their mutual agreement to _not_ talk about their feelings was a unique feature of their friendship that she valued dearly.

If he noticed her studying him - which he almost certainly did - he didn’t call it out, and instead just gave her a shrug, clearly too exhausted to trade barbs, before turning his gaze to Honoroit, still fast asleep. “How’s the boy?”

Moni followed his gaze, reaching over without really thinking to brush a stray hair from the boy’s forehead and tuck the blankets closer under his chin. “Mostly scrapes and bruises… but he took a nasty knock on the head, so the chirurgeons are keeping him overnight to keep an eye on him…”

Thancred made a noise as if he were having an amusing thought, and when she looked up she found him studying her with a curious, inscrutable expression. She returned his look with furrowed brows, feeling suddenly rather self-conscious for some indiscernible reason.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing… just surprising is all,” he shrugged, giving her an odd, knowing smirk now.

“What is?” she demanded quietly, irritation nipping at the edge of her voice. 

“You. Fussing over a little lordling’s squire like you were his mother… or perhaps grandmother, in this case,” he added, slyly, taking a prudent step out of striking range. 

He needn’t have bothered. Moni merely frowned and threw him a sharp, reproachful look. It wasn’t the jab at her age that bothered her - he was, after all, _technically_ correct - but rather the insinuation that she was somehow… _unmotherly_. It gnawed at her, perhaps because it shouldn’t have bothered her at all, and wound that fearful thing in her even tighter, and all of this must have been written all over her face, because Thancred’s expression suddenly dropped into something chastened and apologetic. 

“Ah. I’ve gone and said exactly the wrong thing, haven’t I?”

“Like a heretic in Ishgard…” she replied, wryly, turning her gaze back to Honoroit. “Why does it surprise you?” 

“I don’t suppose there’s an answer I could give that won’t make this worse for myself?” he replied, obviously forcing lightness into his voice.

She returned his look with one of impatient exasperation, folding her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair. “There might be, if you can stop chewing on your own foot long enough to answer the bloody question.”

“Alright, alright…” He held up his hands in surrender. “It is obvious that you care for the people of Eorzea, and for those you hold dear… you wouldn’t run yourself ragged solving all of our problems if you didn’t… but there is a wall around you a malm high, my friend. Nothing gets out and no one gets in.”

Moni didn’t know what to say to that, and so said nothing, staring at a spot on the wall behind his right shoulder instead as he continued.

“I won’t presume to know _why_ that is the case… and I do like to think that I know you well enough to assume that it is for good reason… So it is a _pleasant_ surprise to see you let down your guard from time to time. It means that we haven’t completely broken you yet and there’s still a person behind the wall of scowls. And who knows, perhaps the queen of the stoics is even capable of feeling something besides violent intent,” he added, with a cheeky smirk, clearly trying to inject some kind of dark levity to break the tension that now hung over her like a heavy cloak.

But she wasn’t in any state to appreciate his jest, however well-intentioned. She could feel his eyes on her, silently waiting for some sign that he’d said something resembling the right thing, but she couldn’t meet them. His words had struck true, landing on a target she hadn’t even known was there, and all she could manage in response was a quiet “I see…” 

“I get the feeling I’ve just made this worse…” he replied, crossing his own arms and studying her carefully. She didn’t have to look at him to know the wheels were turning, trying to determine a way to repair the damage he’d already done and secure them both a way out of this increasingly awkward conversation. Finally, he spoke again, with a helpless shrug. “Seems that’s all I’ve done today.”

Moni sighed, silently thanking him for his strategic self-depreciation - even as she wondered how much truth it betrayed - before lifting her gaze to meet his with a stern eye and a half-hearted smirk. “Quite a feat, considering how spectacularly Emmanellain already cocked things up…”

Thancred scowled at the mention of the Fortemps boy, before giving her a forced grin. “How much trouble do you suppose I’ll catch for decking him?”

Moni returned his look with a sardonic smirk of her own. “I have a feeling Emmanellain isn’t going to be too keen on telling anyone about that little exchange…”

“And what about you, oh Warrior of Light? Aren’t you obliged to give a full report?”

“Please, between Alphinaud and the Lord Commander, I’ll be lucky to get a word in edgewise…” That pulled a genuine chuckle from her friend, and she allowed herself one as well before giving him a sly look. “Though I am still sore that you didn’t let me take a swing at the spoiled sod…” 

He just shrugged, and gave her a mockingly serious look. “Better that I should take the blame than the great and illustrious hero of the realm.”

“Keep that ‘hero’ nonsense up and I might find my violent impulses again,” she growled, feigning annoyance.

Thancred just breathed a wry laugh at that. “Good to see some things never change… and yet despite your reluctance, duty calls again.”

Moni bit back a groan. “What now?”

“Nothing that can’t wait ‘til morning, but we have been summoned back to Ishgard, and you to a meeting with the Lord Commander, I’m afraid.”

Of course. She sighed, rubbing her eyes, weary at the thought of what _that_ meeting would entail. 

“Which means _you_ ought to go get some sleep,” he added, eyeing her sharply, in a tone that didn’t leave much room for argument, before cutting off her one avenue of protest with a gentle “I’ll stay with the boy.”

“If anyone here needs to get some sleep it’s you,” she grumbled, stubbornly.

“I can sleep tomorrow,” he replied, and they both knew that was a lie, but Moni could see that he was trying to offer her a kindness, and knew he needed her to accept it. “Go.”

“Alright, alright,” she relented, reaching down for her pack and standing with a groan. Slinging the bag over one shoulder, she sighed, remembering that she hadn’t had a chance to secure herself an inn room amidst all the chaos. “You didn’t happen to book a room, did you?” 

Thancred just nodded, producing a key from his pocket with a half-hearted flourish and pressing it into her palm as he crossed to take her place in the hard wooden chair next to the bed. “You can repay me with a stout drink later.”

“Ever the generous soul,” she replied, the fond smile tugging at the corner of her lips belying her facetious tone, and turned to leave. Something gave her pause, though, and she reached back to give his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Thank you.”

The look she got in return was one of genuine surprise, but she didn’t give him a chance to reply before turning heel once again and slipping out the door and into the night.

*****

The room that Thancred had given up was modest, sparsely furnished and clearly on the cheaper end of what the small inn had on offer, but it offered a modicum of privacy and the sheets were clean. Kicking off her boots and tossing her coat over the footboard, Moni sank onto the edge of the thin mattress with a grunt. 

She hadn’t had the heart to tell Thancred that she wasn’t likely to get much sleep either. Her mind had latched onto his words from earlier, gnawing on them with the persistence of a stray with a bone as she had made the brief walk through the frozen square back to the inn. 

_There’s a wall around you… no one gets in…_

Before, he might have been correct, and it wouldn’t have bothered her, but now… Now he was only half-correct, and the point on which he was wrong was the very thing she had spent the better part of the day trying not to think about but no longer had the energy to deny, even to herself.

Someone _had_ gotten in. 

Despite all her best efforts and stubborn refusals, Raubahn had managed to scale her wall, with patience, and honesty, and a gentleness that still managed to surprise her… and if it was anyone else, she might have tried to evict them, but him…

That warm, inviting feeling had crept into her breast again, pressing down the fearful thing and sending heat rushing from her chest all the way to the tips of her ears. Without thinking, she reached for the breast pocket of her coat, fingers brushing the smooth corners of the little wooden box she had secreted away that morning before she could stop herself. He would already be asleep, and it wouldn’t be fair to wake him just because she wanted to hear his voice… 

Chastising herself, she stood instead, stepping away from the bed to strip off her armor and underclothes, until she was down to her smalls and shivering in a draft she hadn’t noticed before. She clambered under the covers and drew them close around her, shifting to get comfortable and screwing her eyes shut in a vain attempt to force herself to sleep. 

But what had started as a gnawing was now a frenzy of conflicting feelings and it was absolutely not going to let her rest. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the long shadows against the low ceiling, trying desperately to untangle the knots in her head. One thought in particular kept wiggling its way to the surface, and almost unconsciously her hand moved to her belly, tracing the jagged line just below her navel, that reminder of the thing she’d thought she had made peace with… 

She should have known the truce had been broken the moment she had flinched at Raubahn’s touch. There had been no reason for it; he’d kissed her other scars just as gently, but when his lips had brushed _this_ scar, she had flinched, overcome with a sudden sense of shame that he had done nothing to make her feel… 

And to his immense credit, he had responded as well as anyone could, simply accepting her vague request without question. He didn’t linger on it, and he didn’t pry. He never pried, even when he had every right to… He just took those moments when her old life reared its ugly head in stride, without judgment or pity. In their place he offered kindness, and _respect_ , and she didn’t know what she had done to deserve any of it. 

She just knew that she wanted it - was _letting_ herself want it - and that she wanted to give it back to him, a hundred times over. If he thought she deserved gentleness, then it was only right that he should deserve it in return… He had known suffering, and humiliation, as intimately as she had; he’d clawed his way up and out, just as desperately as she had. Surely, he deserved all of her gentleness, and her kindness… 

_You’re in love with them, aren’t you?_

Hilda’s question reared up from the back of her mind, a cold dose of uncertainty drowning out the pleasant warmth in her chest, and she frowned to herself. Love hurt; love made you bleed and bruise and apologize for things you didn’t do… and whatever she felt for Raubahn wasn’t that. He made her feel safe, made her feel cherished and worthy and… and she didn’t know what to call that, but it couldn’t be love… could it?


End file.
